


i’m thankful for you guys, i guess

by joisattempting



Series: look over there it's a wild falsettos college au [11]
Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: A little, F/F, F/M, Grocery Shopping, Kinda, M/M, Prayer, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Dinner, charlotte and marvin can’t cook, diane the turkey, justice for diane 😔😔, mendel’s tragic backstory, there is one (1) reference to the falsettos side by side and i am ashamed of myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21513121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joisattempting/pseuds/joisattempting
Summary: the gang celebrates thanksgiving.
Relationships: Dr. Charlotte/Cordelia (Falsettos), Trina/Mendel Weisenbachfeld, Whizzer Brown/Marvin
Series: look over there it's a wild falsettos college au [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1518932
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	i’m thankful for you guys, i guess

**Author's Note:**

> hi! and welcome to the thanksgiving special!  
> this is supposed to be after marvin’s birthday fic which doesn’t exist yet but fuck plotholes
> 
> anyway! a few things! if you didn’t already know, cordelia is catholic in this au. marvin also went through a middle and surname change, which you’ll see in the fic. i’ll be changing it to the new ones in any previous stories, too. 
> 
> “marvin’s middle and last names have been changed on account that these ones are more badass” - @witherbrown
> 
> enjoy! comments and kudos make me really happy :)
> 
> tw : very implicit mentions of unacceptance (of being trans)

Mendel winced as they entered the Walmart. “Do you think we’re a little late?” 

Judging by the sheer amount of frantic last-minute shoppers sprinkled around the department store, you’d think there was an apocalypse around the bend. Babies wailed, demanding release from their prisons in the shopping cart. Distressed mothers fussed over turkey brands, snapping at tired employees to fetch them a manager. Fathers scratched their heads over shopping lists, balancing toddlers on their hips. Six penniless college students definitely were a sight for sore eyes, but they were entitled to celebrate Thanksgiving, too. All you really needed to face the hoards of panicking families were a pair of sneakers, a cart, a list so long it could be mistaken for toilet paper, and a nasty streak about yourself. After all, you’d never find the high-quality pepper shakers if you were too afraid to knock a bitch to the ground. 

With this particular group of people, there was a strenuous process to shopping for any given holiday. Every year, they vowed to arrive early, but every year, they failed. This year, their tardiness was due to Whizzer’s skinny jeans being a tad tight around the waistline, causing all six of them to stay behind for a solid fifteen minutes, trying to console him as he questioned everything he knew. The others were unable to get a word in edgewise, and tell him that he’d had that constricting pair of trousers since senior year of high school. It was no surprise that they refused to button any longer. In the end, Charlotte had to speed over to the closest Walmart they knew of, the photography major dressed in less figure-hugging pants, but it was too late. Battle had begun. 

Each of them found themselves looking forward to the holiday. For some, Thanksgiving had been a miserable occasion. Others, not so much. Yet they all found that they enjoyed it thoroughly when they celebrated together, even though the oven would be caked in soot and there were eggs on the floor and stuffing in Marvin’s curls. Sometimes they swapped stories of past Thanksgivings while chewing on slightly-charred turkey, other times they’d binge-watch a Netflix show. Despite their own respective likings and specific programmes they watched, Cordelia had come up with the idea of having one for the six of them. A pleasant, comfortable occasion, during which all of them somehow managed to get heavily wine-drunk. 

“No, ‘Del. Judging by those shelves over there,” Marvin pointed to a group of white, metal shelves that had been cleaned out by customers. “And the shit ton of people here, we’re right on time,”

Cordelia leaned over the cart, wistfully smiling. “I used to help my mom pick dinner ingredients out every year. My dad almost died because I forced my mom to put chili in the turkey when I was four,”

Automatically, Whizzer started howling with mirth, the blonde soon following. The former’s four-year-old counterpart had been present at that very dinner (his mother being too hot and bothered to cook enough for the entire US army, solely for his sake), and had choked on his pretend wine on seeing gentle, altruistic Mr Thompson’s face turn a striking tomato-red. Both the guest and the women of the house had started laughing uncontrollably as he sprinted around the small suburbian house in search of cool water, knocking over anything in his line of vision. This included plant pots, porcelain jars, and, at one point, the Bible they kept in the office. He’d been profusely reprimanded by his wife after Whizzer went home. 

Marvin tightened his grip on the cart’s handlebars. There it was - the notorious scrunched-up face and squinted eyes that made him want to scream. He didn’t know when he’d work up the guts to just get it out of his system. But would it ruin things between he and one of his closest friends? That was a question he didn’t want an answer to. 

“Alright, do you guys know the plan?” Trina said, for the seventh time that day. “Whizzer and Marvin are getting the potatoes, beans, and the prepackaged rolls, because bread from scratch doesn’t agree with us. Charlotte and Dee are-“

“On turkey duty. You and I have any ingredients for pumpkin pie. Marvin’s paying-“

“When did we decide that?”

“We got it, Trin. Don’t worry,” Mendel smiled, snaking an arm around her waist. He did manage to calm her down, even in the most tense situations. Nobody could fathom how he did it. A natural, God-given talent, really. Mendel felt her muscles relax as she inhaled deeply. 

Charlotte yawned. “Are we not doing cranberry sauce?”

Absently, the photographer twirled one of his hoodie strings around his finger. He remembered the red sauce’s unpopularity at his childhood home. It often lay dejectedly in the fridge for days, the top of the bowl covered with clear seran wrap. Eventually, his mother tossed it out like yesterday’s newspaper. “Nope. Nobody likes it, and it’s usually fucked up anyway. At least, that’s how it went with my family,”

Marvin smirked, leaning his arms against the plastic cart handles. “I’m surprised you didn’t eat the table, too,”

His grin only broadened when an exasperated Whizzer threw up his middle finger. 

After the culinary skills major had told Mendel a painstaking five times where the sugar aisle was located, the group disbanded and wandered off in their respective, different directions. Despite being told the exact location repeatedly, the psych major still managed to get himself and Trina positively lost in the midst of a Walmart. She found it winsome and endearing, the man’s horrible sense of direction and scatterbrained demeanor. He was forever misplacing all sorts of odds and ends, ploughing through his bag for his apartment keys or his dorm for an old sheet of notes. Once, Trina remembered, she’d tried to introduce tubs and bins into his life to keep him organised, but that went out the window fairly quickly. Constantly he marvelled at her orderly dorm room, with its perfect blue-and-yellow colour scheme, coordinated organisation system, and decor. It was much easier to look at, and it didn’t make him visibly cringe like his own did. 

“I think we passed the sugar aisle ten minutes ago,” Mendel scratched his head, eyes wavering around the various aisles in the store, then back at the endless lines of tupperware surrounding him. “Beats me how we ended up here,”

“It’s back the other way, ‘Del,” Trina shook her head fondly, her eyes squinting tightly when she smiled. Brushing back a curl from his eyes, she began to lead him out of the section. This was going to be the longest hour of her life. Just the previous year, he’d slipped and sprained his wrist, the offender being the cracked egg from the carton he’d managed to drop on the floor. After three more mishaps, Mendel had found himself outside the department store. Trina knew that ingredient shopping with him wasn’t one of her better ideas, but for some reason, she couldn’t seem to keep away from him. “What do we need?” she asked, once they’d found the aisle. 

“Brown sugar,” Mendel replied, studying the paper carefully. “She has the word ‘brown’ underlined five times,”

“You don’t mess with her if it has five lines under it. Otherwise she’ll release the beast,”

“What’s the beast?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,”

Lugging a hefty bag from the middle shelf, Trina shoved the brown sugar into the basket they shared. They’d probably need more of it, anyway, considering their group of clumsy, dysfunctional people. About a third of it would wind up on the floor, courtesy of Marvin, and Whizzer would consume multiple spoonfuls of the stuff despite the others’ best efforts to make him stop. He wasn’t a baker or a chef, not in the slightest, but he was a large help when it came to the eating part of the process. 

Looking up, she found Mendel leaping into the air, in an attempt to snatch the bag of flour from the top shelf. Their height diffence was amusing. To her, at least. Trina could carry him on her back, or use his head as an armrest. Since the beginning, Mendel had been on the receiving end of a number of short jokes. He’d almost always been shortest in his classes. PE teachers snickered when his efforts at shooting the ball into the net during a basketball unit were aimless and futile. Gangly, towering kids from an assortment of cliques teased him in lessons for his belated growth spurt, and he’d lay his curly head on the vandalised desks while cutting insults swarmed his head. But once he and Trina met in high school, the sensitivity had slowly ebbed away. She was proud of him. Something that used to always nag at his mind, that used to aggravate him and produce negative thoughts, was now a trait he proudly wore on his sleeve. 

“Can you get the flour for me?” he laughed, landing on his feet from his fifth jump. “The one Dee wants is on the top shelf,”

Sniggering, the girl stood on her toes and retrieved the surprisingly-light bag of white flour. She grinned as she placed it in the cart. Straightening up, her bangs were swiftly swept from her eyes. “You’re a short insomniac,”

Mendel raised his eyebrows. “That’s a new one. But you’re not wrong there,”

“You’re sure this turkey was the only one you could find? It looks like it’s been hit by a car and then had its appendix removed by a two-year-old,” Cordelia asked her fed up girlfriend, eyeing the wrapped turkey in the basket. It had been shaped strangely, and one of the legs was bent in a manner it shouldn’t have been. Of course, Charlotte, knowing next to nothing about the culinary arts, hadn’t noticed. Being a med student, she’d been taught to make the most of whatever was on hand. Besides, she’d seen far worse than a distorted turkey. 

“The appendix isn’t in the leg, Dee,” 

“That’s not the fucking point,” the blonde seethed, but she couldn’t get angry. Her doctor’s confused half-smile made Cordelia’s blue eyes grow to the size of quarters. That was the thing with Charlotte; despite her forgetful nature and overall klutziness, she somehow still turned out to be one of the most charming people Cordelia had ever met. Yes, she’d forget about an assignment for an entire week despite making note of it, working late into the twilight to finish studying for a quiz, but it was her mission to ensure her blonde girlfriend slept enough hours, remembered to eat something, and took breaks if she ever felt suffocated by the crashing seas of schoolwork. When the ghostly moonlight peeked through the curtain, the bags under her eyes dark and purple, and her hands trembling with cramp as she finished an assignment, Charlotte made the most disgusting green tea on the planet and sat by her.

Cordelia always drank it anyway. 

“Okay, we got the stuffing. Is that everything?” Charlotte held up a bag. 

Visibly cringing, the blonde pinched the bridge of her nose, eyeing the bag of premade stuffing with disgust. “You med students, you’re so naive. You don’t know the fifteen-step process to picking stuffing,” 

The brunette knew they’d be here for a good deal longer than she’d anticipated. 

On the other side of the store, Whizzer and Marvin battled the crowds as they searched for vegetables. The former had been whistled at wolfishly by younger men. The law student had tried to button his lips about it, his friend assuring him repeatedly that nothing would come of it - he’d probably never come into contact with those boys again after that day. Yet by the second time it had happened, Marvin’s blood was boiling, and his insides were churning. He couldn’t really remember what had happened - all he could see was an abyss of blaring red lights. People stared while he spat cutting nonsense at a baffled freshman. All Whizzer could do was stand back, stunned as the temperamental law student vomited up every ounce of anger he felt. By the time he was finished, the kid was crying, and he was positively out of breath. 

“Thanks. For, uh, doing that,” Whizzer smiled awkwardly, pushing his glasses up his nose. 

Breath still heaving, Marvin cracked a smile. “It’s alright,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. He examined his shoes, so as to not let his friend see the hues of red tinged on his cheeks. “It’s disgusting, that kinda thing,”

Whizzer put an arm around the other man’s shoulders. As they wandered through the aisles in search of potatoes, his mind kept mulling over the situation. Why had his knees gone weak and his stomach flipped with nausea when he watched Marvin scream? Surely his lightheadedness when the guy’s curls fell in his blazing eyes meant nothing? Was it best to forget it? He thought so. 

“What’s the difference between a good potato and a bad potato?” he asked Marvin, who milled around the produce aisle as Whizzer picked potatoes. 

“You’re a bad potato,” he quipped, bringing a pack of green beans closer to his face so he could read the nutrition values for no apparent reason. 

Sticking his tongue out, the photographer began stuffing potatoes into a plastic bag. “I hope you know how wounded I am, Marvin Alexander Feldman,” 

Rolling his eyes, the law student checked his watch. “C’mon. We should get all this shit to the register,”

After a rueful Marvin paid for the assorted ingredients, Whizzer was appointed to load it all into Charlotte’s Audi, because goddamn, he had muscles. Loudly, they sang along to the radio as the doctor sped through the city. Traffic jams weren’t a bother - it allowed them more time together in the most intimate space they could think of. Despite the many memories the six shared, all of them could agree that a favourite had to be the moments in the car. From the first drive to campus when they were awkward freshmen, to annual road trips all the way down to Nebraska, Charlotte’s black Audi had stuck around to witness them at their highest, lowest, and strangest. When Whizzer was left with slurred speech and a heavy stumble in his step, Charlotte was at the ready with a couple Ibuprofen capsules and a lecture on the dangers of underage drinking. Exam stress often found Mendel in the front seat, devouring cookies and listening to soft music as he sobbed. It was more than a car to not just its owner, but to the other five as well.

“Okay, here’s our grand master plan,” Cordelia placed her hands on the kitchen island, the others surrounding her. Trina unloaded the bagged items. “Trin, since you’re the least shit at cooking out of all you idiots, you’re helping me with the apple pie. Whizzer and Mendel are cooking the turkey and stuffing it. You guys,” here, she pointed at Charlotte and Marvin. “You guys literally just need to boil the green beans and make the mashed potatoes. If you fuck this up, you’ll be left to fend for yourselves with measly Chinese takeout and not my fucking godtier turkey,”

And on that extremely positive note, the group got to work. The turkey team had made a rough start, but seemed to be getting back on track after they’d spent a solid thirty seconds laughing like lunatics at the malformed, raw turkey. Mendel’s face had gone a concerning scarlet, and Whizzer was wheezing on the hardwood. On the other side of the island, the med student scowled at them as she violently chopped green beans, rambling about how “turkey-ist” they were acting, and that the odd-looking one on the large cutting board was the most beautiful bird she’d ever seen. Nonetheless, the men composed themselves and began reading the instructions Dee had written out for them in her bubby handwriting. She was taking no risks. 

“It says we need to stuff it loosely,” the noirette was in charge of reading the method. He looked back at the turkey. “How the fuck do we do that?”

“I think it means that we don’t put a lot inside for now,” Brows furrowed, his partner grabbed a fistful of stuffing and stuck his hand inside the turkey. “I don’t think I did it right, but you know what? That’s okay. It’s not like the stuffing has to be perfect. Especially not if the turkey looks like something stabbed it,”

“Excuse you, Diane is beautiful,” Charlotte piped. On seeing the questionable looks being shot in her directions by her friends, she sighed as she hacked away at a half of the green vegetable. “Yes, I named the bird. It’s a tradition,” 

While those two fumbled confusedly with cooking twine and oven settings, Trina analysed the pie recipe. The two were a surprising dream team. That was found out after the one time they’d been paired for a Home Ec session, during which they were required to produce a stew. In the end, theirs had turned out delectable and aromatic, while Marvin’s was on the floor and Mendel’s smelled like someone had blasted excrement all over the room. Since then, the girls had teamed up whenever they could, but somewhat drifting in senior year. 

“Is that the crust?” Cordelia asked, whisking the filling mixture with ferocity. The ingredients were starting to bond, forming that familiar, sweet-smelling orange solution. The crust had just finished chilling in Shrek’s Swamp’s well-stocked fridge. The final step was to pour the filling in, then hypothetically throw it into the oven to bake. 

“Yeah,” she smiled, setting it beside the kettle to cool. “How’s the filling coming?”

“I think it’s almost done. We just need to wait till the crust cools,”

That was how most of their conversation went while cooking was being done. Analytical, competent, and on-task. No doubts or second-guesses, unlike the two who claimed the spots as the group’s most substandard bakers. 

A cloud of smoke erupted into the air like magma from a volcano as Marvin boiled the hastily-cut potatoes. The crockpot gave a concerning hiss. Eyes wide in alarm behind his misty glasses, the curly-haired brunet jabbed at the skinned vegetable with the wooden spoon. “Shit! How long were these supposed to simmer for?” 

Charlotte began to rake her fingers through her hair - a nervous habit. She could see Whizzer beginning to giggle, and her girlfriend quirking an eyebrow in their direction as she poured her orange filling into her partner’s crust. Although they’d been tasked with the most uncomplicated, facile task, it had tumbled downhill from the minute they’d began. Glasses falling into the boiling pot of beans and slicing your finger in place of a potato were only a trifling few examples. The two had been notorious since high school for their sub-par cooking skills; both of them had flunked Home Ec for three years out of four, and neither of them ever cooked. Not out of laziness or indolence, but to spare everyone’s sanity and health. 

“It says ten minutes on the paper!” the doctor rushed over, cupping a hand over her eyes so the steam wouldn’t haze her vision. She chewed on her lip. Of course she’d known that an unwelcome mishap would occur, especially with Marvin, but did he really have to burn the potatoes?

“Marvin, I swear to God, I’m gonna call the Chinese place right fucking now,” Cordelia quipped as she fiddled with a switch on the oven. 

“I’m sure we can still fix it,” Trina wagered, waving the steam from the chipped red crockpot in the opposite direction. Rather than make fun of her ex-boyfriend for his lack of cooking skills, the Jewish girl pitied him. He’d never really been drilled on the importance of learning the aspects of cooking, having been too busy trying to impress his mother with high marks, and, towards the end of his high school life, working double to secure himself a scholarship at NYU. Of course, his parents’ praise was squandered on finding out, at the beginning of this very school year, that his brother had snagged himself a place at Harvard. It was nothing he hadn’t felt before, and that all-too-familiar numb feeling settled in him for months, increasing by tenfold whenever he’d be sent photos of his younger counterpart beaming, clutching certificates or representing the school at conventions. The younger boy’s old professor had come to teach at NYU, and would never button his lips about how clever, how sharp, how bright his little brother was. Emmett Isaac Forrest-Feldman. The thought of him, and that godforsaken first section of his surname that Marvin had purposefully left a secret, made the man sick to his stomach. 

And so, the whole group pitched in, attempting to salvage what they could from the potatoes. They were only slightly charred, to everyone’s relief, and could still be used. Cooking continued, and everything was eventually complete. Cordelia began to lay out the dishes atop the tablecloth Trina had placed on the kitchen island (to Whizzer’s chagrin, because “That thing makes me want to throw up,”). Moving numerous plates onto such a small, square surface proved to be a challenge, but they’d pulled through after much relocation. After pulling up two extra chairs for the campus residents, the six sat down at the island.

“Should we...uh...say a prayer? Or something?” Mendel piped awkwardly. He was just as surprised as the others were. Despite being Jewish, everyone knew that the Weisenbachfelds were about the least religious people his friends knew of. But it felt right. After all, he was finally content in his current state and place. Seeing his father’s reaction to his coming out as trans, the horrid image of throwing clothes into his college suitcase as hot tears spilled from his eyes, sobbing with relish in Charlotte’s Audi as she drove him to the city to move into the dorm the six were to share. But he was here now. Somewhat happy, surrounded by acceptance and care. Add all that to being comfortable with who he was and what he wanted to become of himself, why wouldn’t he be thankful? 

“Yeah. That’d be... nice,” Trina mumbled, tucking a stray hair behind her ear and smiling. And pray they did. Herself, Mendel, Marvin, Charlotte, and Whizzer, that is. Cordelia stayed silent, reciting a memorised excerpt from the Catholic Prayer Book, her high-pitched voice lonely and assertive. 

“We should play that game where we say what we’re thankful for,” Whizzer laughed, immediately setting down his fork and knife after realising that nobody had touched theirs yet. “Dee, you start,”

The blonde looked like she’d been rehearsing for this moment for months. “I’m thankful for Food Network, Michelle Obama, and whoever invented the first fridge,”

Dramatically, Marvin gasped. “Cordelia, I’m offended. You aren’t thankful for your friends? Your loyal, kind, sweet, wonderful friends?” he said, his voice cracking on the last two words, causing Whizzer to dissolve into a fit of giggles.

Cordelia smiled, tilting her head to the side in though. “Yeah. I’m thankful for you guys, I guess,”


End file.
